At ten o’clock last night, a cacophony of voices blasted through my window as I sat writing. Moments later, roommate Ziv, just arrived from Alabama for a video shoot, burst through the front door. “Call the cops! Call the cops! Someone stole the motorcycle!”
In the driveway next door, 15 of my Bosnian neighbors were running a Chinese Fire Drill (without benefit of the car, or in this case, motorcycle), shouting for someone—anyone—to call the cops. Actually, it was only a moped—the moped their grade-school kids use to buzz legal walkers and drivers on the local streets. Inside, Chicken Little squawked the same cry, visualizing, in his dismembered head, his Hi-Def video camera—the one that cost more than the original price of my house—was being stolen as well. All of them incapable of picking up a damn phone, I made the call.
Outside, as they waited for the cops, the fire drill continued. I shut all the windows so I could hear myself think, and then snapped on the air conditioning. The droning compressor is 20 years old, and for the last 12 years, I’ve fretted as the warm season approached. Please, just cool for one more year! It worked! The pandemonium was blocked, and air slowly cooled the house. Ziv, having recovered his phone skills, began alerting friends of his camera's narrow escape.
This morning peace had returned. Nedad brought me an ice-cold bottle of Corona as a token of thanks—a huge improvement. The last he bore gifts, he gave me a promotional calendar from the Hong Kong King Buffet (printed off-register) and a pop-top can of imitation strawberry auto air freshener. As he handed me the bottle, I saw his five-o’clock shadow. It had crept from the backs of his fingers to the bottom of his short-sleeved shirt. (See last post.)
Over all, I made out like a bandit: free beer, disappearance of neighborhood-scourge moped, and successful test of the air conditioning with no time for attack of angst. Oh blessed thief, when will you return?
In the driveway next door, 15 of my Bosnian neighbors were running a Chinese Fire Drill (without benefit of the car, or in this case, motorcycle), shouting for someone—anyone—to call the cops. Actually, it was only a moped—the moped their grade-school kids use to buzz legal walkers and drivers on the local streets. Inside, Chicken Little squawked the same cry, visualizing, in his dismembered head, his Hi-Def video camera—the one that cost more than the original price of my house—was being stolen as well. All of them incapable of picking up a damn phone, I made the call.
Outside, as they waited for the cops, the fire drill continued. I shut all the windows so I could hear myself think, and then snapped on the air conditioning. The droning compressor is 20 years old, and for the last 12 years, I’ve fretted as the warm season approached. Please, just cool for one more year! It worked! The pandemonium was blocked, and air slowly cooled the house. Ziv, having recovered his phone skills, began alerting friends of his camera's narrow escape.
This morning peace had returned. Nedad brought me an ice-cold bottle of Corona as a token of thanks—a huge improvement. The last he bore gifts, he gave me a promotional calendar from the Hong Kong King Buffet (printed off-register) and a pop-top can of imitation strawberry auto air freshener. As he handed me the bottle, I saw his five-o’clock shadow. It had crept from the backs of his fingers to the bottom of his short-sleeved shirt. (See last post.)
Over all, I made out like a bandit: free beer, disappearance of neighborhood-scourge moped, and successful test of the air conditioning with no time for attack of angst. Oh blessed thief, when will you return?
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